


1965-2004

by what_on_io



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Lots of drinking, M/M, Tattoos, and strip clubs, and swears, they just really need to communicate okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9272834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: Trevor's tattoo is such an intricate fuckin' thing, too, the Gothic swirl of the cross, the RIP engraved in neat cursive. No cartoony, laugh-through-the-pain shit he’d expect from Trevor. No, hemeanthis tattoo.Michael's on the verge of divorce and sick of going to strip clubs every night. He suggests a change, one Trevor is all too happy to take him up on. Cue some much-needed communication and underhand tactics from T, and maybe they can get over Michael being a traitorous snake after all.





	

They’re propping up the bar in another seedy strip club: third night in a row Michael will watch Trevor leer over some girl before inevitably heading off for a private dance, while he orders whiskey after whiskey and tips them back. Now Michael sits nursing his third drink, tired already of the stench of alcohol and B.O., tired of elbows colliding with his ribs as people shove past him to angle closer to the stage, tired of Trevor acting like this makes them both happy.

  
It might have made him happy, once. But now Amanda is gone and his kids are still reeling from the idea of _Divorce_ ; and every girl who takes his elbow has something in her that reminds him of his soon to be ex-wife. The way that one wears her hair. The angle of a hipbone in that one. And over there, the faint blush in her cheeks, like Amanda got after they fucked or, more recently, following another furious game of tennis.

  
And shit, the worst part is he hardly misses her. More the _idea_ of her, the idea of being able to go out for a cheap fuck and still having a warm body waiting at home. Now, after Trevor disappears into the back room and comes out again with a stripper plastered to his side acting like he’s God’s gift, it’s Michael who’s left alone in his stupid big house, still echoing with the footsteps of his family. The family who’d given up everything for him. That _he’d_ given up everything for.

  
Michael shakes himself from his tipsy stupor and props an elbow up on the bar, turning slightly to look at Trevor. The man’s still in the first stage of drunkenness - a bit past tipsy but nowhere near the calling-Michael-an-unforgivable-turd phase. Another few beers, though, and he’ll be sidling over to the dancers and linking a skinny arm through theirs, and when he comes back he’ll be slurring insults at full volume, and Michael will want to burrow under the floor and never emerge.

  
“Hey, you wanna go somewhere else?” Michael asks without much hope. There’s a gleam behind his friend’s eyes which tells him even after three consecutive nights getting trashed he hasn’t burned out yet, and there’ll be more strip joints and bars and mooning the bouncers when they get thrown out, until they all blend into one pulsing mass of booze and women and Trevor’s naked butt-

  
Which Michael should absolutely not be thinking about. No way. Must be the whiskey.

  
“What, you bored?” Trevor asks, voice pitched higher than Michael would like. He’s irritated already, and Michael hasn’t even said the words ‘early night’ yet.

  
“No! No, man, of course not. Just, maybe hungry. Fancy a burger?” He scrambles for the words, anything that might appeal to the other man’s baser nature. Food’s a thing that friends do, right? Food, and a movie. That’s all Michael wants right now, to be sprawled out on his couch in his boxers, with a pizza and a beer, watching some mindless action movie. And if Trevor doesn’t want to be there, fuck him.

  
Although, a voice somewhere in the deep depths of Michael’s subconscious wonders, why the hell has he agreed to this? He knew full well what the evening would entail, and he still dragged himself out of bed nursing his second hangover in as many days. Still shucked into a rumpled suit, still drove himself all the way out here, all the way across town because Trevor’s bored of the Vanilla Unicorn already, and apparently a greasier joint where the manager stands over the girls like he’s perusing a cattle auction is a step up. It’s not like he’s scared of the man - they’ve known each other too long for that. Michael knows Trevor wouldn’t hurt him, however many times they both threaten it. He’s stared down the barrel of Trevor’s gun enough times to know he’s never gonna pull that trigger.

  
It must be the guilt, he tells himself.

  
“Your fat ass need feeding again already, sugar-tits?” Trevor’s tone has settled back into affectionate prodding, something Michael can live with. Still, he waves his glass incredulously, because apparently arguments are what’ll get Trevor Philips’ ass moving enough to get them out of here.

  
“Whaddya mean, again? Haven’t eaten since lunch!”

  
“I _mean_ , you ate lunch,” Trevor grumbles, but at least he’s getting up off the bar stool. He pats his jacket pocket for his keys before appearing to remember Michael drove, and stumbles the few steps away from the bar.

  
“Fuck off,” Michael gripes back, following. And he’s not watching Trevor’s ass in his jeans. He’s _not_.

* * *

 

“Let me drive,” Trevor all but whines when they’re safely in the car. Michael groans, batting his hands away from the wheel again. Hell, neither of them should be driving - the road’s swimming a bit in Michael’s whiskey haze, but at least he’s had less than Trevor, who drives like a maniac when he’s sober. In a huff of childish rage, Trevor reaches over to grip the wheel and yanks, so the car goes spinning across the other lane and straight into the path of a huge delivery truck, which brakes hard enough to just bump the side of the car. A blast of its horn half-deafens Michael and startles his alcohol soaked brain into some form of sobriety, enough to slam on the brakes and curse Trevor all the way to hell.

  
“You tryin’ to get us killed?!” he yells, raising a placating hand to the other driver before slowly peeling off in the right direction. Trevor simply folds his arms across his chest, the muscles in his upper arm bulging with the movement. Apparently the action was enough to dispel whatever tension has arisen between them, because he turns grumpily to stare out the window without saying another word.

  
He’s only wearing a polo shirt and jeans, so the tattoo of Michael’s name is on full display, cast in broody shadow in the dim street lighting. And it’s such a fuckin’ intricate thing, too - the Gothic swirl of the cross, the RIP engraved in neat cursive. No cartoony, laugh-through-the-pain shit he’d expect from Trevor. No, he _meant_ his tattoo. It makes Michael wonder - how long did it take? How many weeks of visiting his grave, stuffed with Brad’s corpse while Michael sunned himself in LS, before Trevor accepted Michael was dead and never coming back? Before he decided to get his name permanently emblazoned on his flesh? How long had he agonised over designs, maybe bent over the desk they used for heist planning, sketching and rejecting and crumpling paper like he probably imagined crumpling Michael’s head when he learned of his treachery. _I mourned you!_ The words echo through Michael’s thick skull, a pounding bass rhythm to match the rock station Trevor’s flicked the car radio to.

  
Michael imagines the tears streaking down Trevor’s face, veins bulging in his writing arm as he scribbled, expression contorted in frustration while he tried to get the letters to sit right inside the crucifix. And suddenly he has to ask, because they’ve driven right past the Burger Shot and now T is watching him with guarded curiosity.

  
“Do you regret it?” he says quietly. Trevor grunts, confused, raising his chin from where it’s been resting on his arm, bumping along with the potholes in the road.

  
“What, us almost dyin’? Nah. One of us deserves it, at least.”

  
Michael exhales through his nose in a huff, feeling all of a sudden like he’s playing the part of an exasperated schoolteacher.

  
“No. The tattoo,” he clarifies, watching Trevor’s face for signs he might be about to explode and maybe start peeling Michael’s skin from his body, piece by piece, fragile truce be damned.

  
“What?” Trevor grunts again. His brow furrows for a second before he glances down where Michael’s looking, down to where the tattoo snakes out from under his sleeve, “No.”

“Really? Why not?”

  
“Why? Do you want me to regret it?”

  
“No, no! I just thought…”

  
“What, I’m not allowed to hate you and still like it? Reminds me twenty-four seven that you’re a traitorous snake who’ll stab me in the back for a nice pair of tits and a house with a pool.”

  
“That’s not-“ Michael begins, cutting himself off before the protest can make it out of his mouth. It’d be feeble anyway. He’s thrown that very family away for what might be the third time now to traipse around strip joints with Trevor, and what does that say about him?

  
“Anyway. Yeah. When I first got it it was like you weren’t really gone, okay? It was like you were still there with me. Alright?” Trevor finally snaps, after Michael’s own words have hung in the heavy silence for too long. And shit, that hurts. He goes to put a hand on Trevor’s knee before thinking better of it, keeping his sweaty palms jammed at ten and two on the wheel instead.

  
“I really am sorry, y’know.”

  
“Mmm.”

  
"T, you know I won't- I know you're worried about me pulling that shit again. But I wouldn't. Not for anything," Michael sighs, "I don't really expect you to believe me." 

  
"I do." Trevor's response is quiet, but it's there. Hell, Michael wasn't aware of how much he needed to hear that until he did. 

  
Michael thinks for a moment, weighing the silence in his mind before he speaks again, “Hey, I just thought of somethin’ we could do.”

  
“Oh yeah? Thought your belly needed more fattening up.”

  
“You’ll like this, trust me.”

* * *

 

The tattoo parlour is still open at this time of night, which surprises Michael. It’s approaching one a.m., and although the idea had seemed like a great one in the safe darkness of his car, out here under the stark streetlamp it’s beginning to take on a frightening tinge, and he’d been half-wishing for a closed sign.

  
Still, there’s enough alcohol left in his system that he can shoulder open the door, at least. They’d stopped to pick up a six pack on the way, Trevor insisting it’ll help with the nerves. And the man himself is right behind him, pressed into his back, a smirk plastered on his face. He lounges against the counter like he was born there, pointedly ignoring the tattoo artist, his gaze fixed unswervingly on Michael’s face while he describes what kind of artwork he wants.

  
“Usually I’d take a few days to come up with a design…” the guy says worriedly, edging around Trevor like he’s liable to combust. There’s a spark of true fear in his eyes, but he grabs a hefty album of artwork like a champ, flicking it open to show Michael.

  
“Actually, I already know the kind of thing I want,” he says. There’s a nice drunken haze making the whole thing feel kind of far away, which he appreciates, “Like this.” He sidles over to his friend, taking gentle hold of his left arm. Trevor shudders a little at the motion, and now he’s frowning again. Shit. Michael looks at his tender grip and drops Trevor’s arm like it burns.

  
T obliges him anyway, rolling up his sleeve the rest of the way so the artist can get a good look at the cross. The guy hums a little, still nervous, avoiding any contact with Trevor’s skin like his own might break out in hives just from the contact. If Trevor notices, he doesn't say anything - doesn't even tense up like he usually would. Probably it's the alcohol.

  
“A few minor adjustments, of course,” Michael hears himself say, “But yeah.”

  
“I think this is something we can do, sure. If you want to follow me over to the table.”

* * *

 

When Michael wakes, he’s in agony. He’s rolled over onto his left side while he was sleeping, and there’s a throbbing ache in his upper arm where the clingfilm still rests.

  
Groaning, he heaves himself up into a sitting position, good arm raising to clutch his aching head. Christ, when did he get so _old_? The hangover’s crippling, and his arm hurts, and surprisingly his right butt cheek hurts, and he wants to curl into a foetal position and stay there for a few days.

  
Instead, Michael swings both legs off the bed and pads, naked, through to the en-suite, stifling a yawn. He pisses with his eyes closed, not wanting to look at his reflection in the mirror until he’s certain he can handle it. Shit, last night was such a bad idea.

  
Slowly, Michael opens bleary eyes to meet his own gaze. The full-length mirror glares back at him, and he scrubs a hand over his face as if to erase what he’s seeing. 

  
The tattoo is bigger than he expected it’d be, bigger than he remembers it being last night. It’s blurry through the wrapping, but he can still make out the words - _Michael: traitorous snake circa 2004_ , superimposed over the same Gothic cross as Trevor’s. Fuck, he thinks, without much heat.

  
Swivelling slightly to survey his ass - just in case, Michael tells himself - he freezes. There, underneath a similar clingfilm swaddling, sits another tattoo. A cartoon heart, with _MT + TP_ inside in friendly handwriting.

  
Fuck.

  
“Michael?”

  
The voice startles him. It’s coming from the bedroom, the bedroom Michael was pretty sure he’d left empty when he’d vacated.

  
He nudges the bathroom door open with care, and halts in the doorway. There, sprawled out on the King-sized bed, lies Trevor Philips, tangled in the sheets. One naked leg is curled on top, revealing a bare expanse of thigh and ass and-

  
A heart, on the butt-cheek. _TP + MT_.

  
“Come back to bed, sugar-tits. S’getting cold over here.”

  
It’s not cold - it’s fucking scorching, actually, as always - but Michael does, because why the hell fucking not? He has the man’s initials emblazoned on his ass, might as well make good use of it.

  
“I hate you,” he grumbles anyway.

  
“You love me. You love your new tats, too.”

  
A harrumph. An ‘mmmph’ of agreement.

  
A kiss pressed to Trevor’s shoulder, and then a slow sliding of bedsheets, and then more groans, of a different kind.

  
And hell, maybe Trevor isn’t half wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorryyyyy. This is probably the lamest thing I've ever written, and I've written some lame shit in my life. I just needed them to be cute and in love and to fix all that pesky angst.


End file.
